THE ATTIC ROOM
A Drama in Two Acts
By
Ronald John Vierling
Act Two
Date: July 23, 1992
Time: 10 P.M.
(Lights come up slowly to playing level. Adam is seated at the drafting table working. His suit coat hangs on the SL kitchen chair. Rachael is lying on her side on the cot, facing away from Adam. As the lights reach playing level, Rachael opens her eyes and makes a small startled sound, as if she is awakening. Adam stops his work and turns to see her without turning all the way around. After a moment, he returns to his work. Without speaking, Rachael sits up slowly, her feet toward the kitchen table. Both are silent for a moment. Then Rachael speaks to him from over her shoulder.)
Was I sleeping?
(Stopping his work but not looking at her.) No.
It felt like it. I was dreaming.
You might have been. I dream, too. (Turns on the stool to look at her.) But I don't sleep. It feels like it. But no one sleeps. Not here.
What was I doing, then?
It's hard to describe. Something in between dreaming and being in a trance. It's as close to sleep as you'll ever get, now. At least, that's been my experience ever since I came here.
(Stands and turns to him.) But why am I here?
I thought you knew.
I'm not so sure, now.
History, Miss Wyze.
That's what you said before. Is that the answer you give when you don't have any other?
No. It's the answer I give when it applies.
But what does it mean?
It means we are connected . . . to one another.
Because I'm a Jew? Because we're both Jews?
That's part of it.
But why am I connected to you . . . personally? Because I'm a second-generation survivor?
Yes. At least, that's another part of it. The Warsaw ghetto. Daughter of a survivor. (Turns to her slowly.) You are a part of this place. Everything in your life is a part of this place.
(Moves to SL kitchen chair and sits down. Then she turns to him.) Is the other part how I died?
I think so.
You said you used to have visitors. Was that because they died the same way we died?
Yes.
And they came to be with you?
Yes. When it was the right day. But none of them ever stays very long.
Then with me, it's the day, isn't it. July 23rd.
I'm afraid so. And the other parts. (Both hesitate for a moment.)
What happened when the others came?
They asked their own questions. Personal questions I couldn't answer. But they asked them, anyway. Then we wondered together. We remembered together, and we wondered together.
It must be very painful for you to have to hear all of that.
Not any more. Once it was. When people first started coming. We'd usually end up crying together. But I haven't been able to cry for a long time. (Shakes his head slowly.) I don't know why that is. Why I can't cry. So I've stopped thinking about it.
Until I brought it up.
You're new here, Rachael. You will pass through what you must pass through.
And you'll pass through it with me.
Probably.
But I'll leave this place, won't I? Eventually?
I can't answer that question.
You can't? Or you won't?
If I knew the answer, I'd tell you. But I don't. (Hesitation.) You must understand, Rachael, that here, in this attic room, no one tells lies. We're all beyond that. Lies are for when you're alive and you want to convince yourself you understand things. Or you want others to believe that you know why you're doing something.
(She is quiet for a moment, as if reflecting.) I must have told many lies. (Looks at him intently.)
We all did. (Looks at her for a long moment. Then he turns back to his drafting table. He speaks over his shoulder.) Most of the time we told them to ourselves.
But I lied to other people. People who needed to hear the truth.
It's not hard to. (A moment passes. Rachael stirs some. Adam is intent on his work.)
What are you doing?
Checking names.
What names?
The names of the Jews who lived in the ghetto. Making sure I have each one in a house.
But they're dead . . . aren't they?
I still have to check my list against my map.
Why? It can't mean anything now.
It's what I do, Rachael. It's my . . . task.
(Stands but does not move away from the table.) Will I have a task?
Probably. Everyone who's ever come here finally does.
When will I know what my task is going to be?
I don't know. Whenever you're ready. Whenever you've remembered enough of what happened to you. Why you're here. First, you'll remember. Then you'll talk about it.
(Nods her head slowly, understanding.) I don't know if I can do that.
Remember? Or talk about it?
Talk about it. I don't imagine I can avoid remembering. But why do I have to talk about it? To you? To anyone?
It isn't me you'll be talking to. You'll say it out loud. But it will be for yourself. I'll hear you, but that's only because I'm here with you.
It sounds very complicated.
No. It's very simple. This is the place you had to see. For whatever reason. Which I cannot explain. So I won't try. But this is the place you had to see just as I was the person you had to find.
Because this place is a part of me? Is that what you mean? Second generation?
Yes. And you knew that. That's why you've come here. You have things you must do. You must do them here.
Then what will happen? After I've done them? What will come next?
I don't know. I've never left here. Others have. But I haven't. So I don't know what will happen to you.
Could you leave here if you wanted?
I haven't tried.
But do you think you could? If you do all you're supposed to do?
I don't know the answer to that question, either. If I ever do all I'm supposed to do here, I assume I will know what comes next. But I don't feel that way yet. So I stay here and do my task.
You remember everything that happened? All of the Jews?
Yes. I remember. And I do my task. I work with the map.
(Moves toward the overstuffed chair.) When should I start talking about what happened?
Whenever you're ready. I will work here at my drafting table. You will start whenever you are ready. (He turns back to his map and list and begins working again.)
But it must be now? This day?
It's the day you chose. It was your decision.
It may have been my decision to do what I did. But I'm not sure how much I must tell you.
You don't have to know right now. You'll learn as you go along. (He turns back to the drafting table.) You never learn more than you need to know, but you always learn enough. So you shouldn't worry.
I always worry. I always want to know the why of things. I want to know the why of everything.
(Turns slowly in his drafting table stool.) Miss Wyze, if you wish to begin now, do so. I can work on my map any time. Otherwise, wait. It will come.
But I don't know if I have the words.
You will have words enough.
But it's very complicated. What happened to me is very complicated. (Adam sits and waits. When she does not begin speaking after several moments, he turns on the stool and goes back to work on the map.)
When you talk about it, it will become more clear.
It was clear when I was in the army. At least, I thought so at the time. (Adam stops working, but he does not turn around.)
You were in the army?
All young people in Israel serve in the army. (Rachael moves around the overstuffed chair so she is behind it. Adam has not moved.)
I didn't know that.
Yes. Men and women. We all serve for a year. Some for more.
(Turning around to look at her.) What did you do in the army?
I was a journalist.
I thought you did that for the Jerusalem Post.
I did. After I got out of the army. But I went to college first. I got an exemption so I could go to college before I went into the army. When I finished my studies, I wrote articles for the army newspaper.
(Smiles.) Good.
That I wrote for the army newspaper?
No. Good that you have begun.
Have I begun?
You'll have to decide that.
(Turns away toward the kitchen table, as if frustrated.) You sound like a rabbi. You never make a direct statement. You answer questions with questions. Where am I now? "Where you are supposed to be." When will I understand things? "When it is time for you to know." It's so frustrating.
(Smiles at Rachael.) Then do you wish to talk about what happened?
(Turns to the overstuffed chair and sits down on the DS arm, turned toward the door, speaking to him over her shoulder.) It started when I was on patrol. With soldiers. We were in the occupied territory. Part of the land Israel won in the war with Jordan.
Israel had a war with Jordan?
Israel fought Egypt and Syria and Jordan all at once. We won territory from each of them. (Adam waits.)
But that was several years ago. Since then, our soldiers have occupied the West Bank. Of the Jordan River. The territory.
I see.
Not long ago, the Palestinians . . . in Israel. They started a protest movement. They call it the Intafada.
The Inta . . . what?
The Intafada. Because ever since we won the land, since we won Israel, they've felt like second class citizens. (Adam waits.)
They still think of Israel as Palestine. (Very carefully.) And they hate us. For taking it all. (She looks at him.) We wanted to share it. We tried to partition the land in 1946. 1947. But they refused. So there was a war. Jews against Palestinians. And Jordan. Which we won. (Hesitates.) Ever since, they've hated us. Then in 1967, Egypt and Syria and Jordan all attacked at once. The war lasted six days. We won the Gaza strip from Egypt and the Golan Heights from Syria and the West Bank from Jordan.
The . . . territory?
Yes.
And ever since then you've had an uneasy peace.
Yes. Very uneasy. We had to defend ourselves for a third time during the Yom Kippur War in 1974. Anyway, the army administers all three areas. I was serving on the West Bank. I wrote news stories. I reported what our soldiers were doing.
Was it dangerous? Being on the West Bank?
Sometimes. The Palestinians use guerrilla tactics. Hit and run. They even have their own army, of sorts. The Palestinian Liberation Organization. Which we consider terrorists, because they attack people in the streets in Jerusalem and attack schools and set off car bombs and shoot at Jewish farm villages.
It sounds dangerous.
It is, sometimes. The Palestinians want the West Bank so they can have their own country. But we're afraid if we gave it to them, they'd use it to launch new attacks against us. So we're stuck. We share the West Bank and the Gaza with the Palestinians, who've become our prisoners. We can't let go of them because we're afraid of what they might do, but we don't want to destroy them and start an even larger war with other Arab countries.
So Israel has a dilemma on its hands.
Dilemma is the nicest thing I've ever heard it called. The whole thing is impossible. It's tearing Israel apart. Religious Jews who believe all of the territory belongs to Israel, because God gave it to us, and because we only left when the Second Temple was destroyed. Other Jews who believe we simply need a safe place to live because of what happened in Europe with the Nazis, they are afraid that if we make any concessions to the Arabs, give them any of the territory back for making peace with us, they are afraid the Arabs will be closer to Jerusalem. Which would mean the Arabs could attack us so quickly we couldn't defend ourselves.
So those two groups don't want to give back any of the occupied territory?
That's right. They are afraid. But a third group is willing to give some of the occupied territory to the Palestinians if they will promise peace.
Exchange land for . . .
Land for peace. That's what they call it. (Adam stands and turns to the window. He looks outside, as if something might be there. Then he turns back to Rachael.)
What do you believe?
(Looks at Adam for a long moment.) I don't know.
You don't have an opinion? I find that hard to believe.
I have an opinion. My opinion is that it's become impossible.
That's not an opinion. It's a plea. Don't ask me to make up my mind. (Shakes his head.) But you will have to make a decision.
No, I won't. Not now.
Ah, yes. July 23rd. Of last year.
Yes. July 23rd. Of last year.
But, was that an answer?
(Looks at him very intently.) Was it an answer for you?
It was the only answer I had.
Then don't accuse me.
I wasn't accusing you.
It sounded like it. (A long moment passes.)
What happened, Rachael?
I chose your day. Or it chose me.
But why? What happened?
That's the complicated part.
It may be, but it's also the part you're going to have to talk about.
I know. But that doesn't make it any easier.
I didn't say it would become easier. I said it would become more clear.
I had been reading your diaries. I couldn't decide what to do. (Adam moves away from the windows and back to the drafting table. He looks at his map for a moment. Then he turns back to Rachael.)
Miss Wyze . . . Rachael. You would not do such a thing just because you could not decide how to resolve Israel's problem with the Palestinians. (Rachael does not respond.)
And you would not do such a thing just because you had been reading my diaries. (Rachael stands and turns toward the kitchen table.)
So something else must have happened to you.
Something else did happen to me.
When you were in the army?
Yes.
When you were writing your articles for the army? (Rachael does not reply. Adam accepts her silence as an affirmation.)
What happened, Rachael?
(Takes a step toward the kitchen table, touching the back of the CS hardback chair.) We were on a patrol. I wanted to see what it was like, out in the field, going into a Palestinian village where we knew . . . where there might be PLO fighters.
So you went with the soldiers? (Hesitation.) And what was it like?
The stress they suffer is terrible. You can see it when they come back in from patrol. But I didn't want to write what they looked like when they came back in. I wanted to see how it happened. What they felt when they went into a village. Why they seemed so bitter and hard.
You were very courageous.
I didn't feel courageous. It was just the only way I knew of trying to figure out the why.
Ah, yes. The why.
So I went with a patrol. And I was carrying a rifle. To protect myself, I suppose. I don't know. Maybe I wanted to feel like a warrior. It doesn't matter now. (Looks at Adam.) What matters is what happened when we got to the village. (Rachael is quiet for a moment, moving around the table to the end where Adam's dress coat is draped over the chair. She touches his coat for a moment. Then she looks up at him.)
As we drove our jeep up to a house on the edge of the village, we saw two men run from the house. A third leaped from a side window. The sergeant yelled, "Halt!" in Arabic. But the men kept on running. So he yelled, "Fire!" Two of our soldiers were in position. They fired at the three men. They hit two of them. The third disappeared over a small hill. The sergeant sent the two soldiers to chase after the man. Then he took the two other soldiers on the patrol and started to go into the house. He told me if I wanted to really see what it was like, I should come along. Because he didn't want me there anyway. He didn't trust me. I think it was his way of trying to show me up. (Rachael turns back toward the doorframe across the room.)
Did you go with them?
Yes. Into the house. Very carefully. But it was deserted. At least, we thought it was. The sergeant and the two other soldiers went through the house to look into the back rooms. I stood still for a moment. Then I started to follow them. That's when . . . That's when I heard a very small noise. So I stopped and pointed my rifle and went into a side room. There was a girl standing in front of me, as if she'd wanted to get out through the window but hadn't known how. She was wearing a long dress. A Palestinian dress. For a moment we looked at each other. I could hear her breathing. It was hard and short and terrified. She was terrified. I couldn't hear anything but that. Her breathing. And my own breathing. But she looked at me. There were tears in her eyes. She was so young. Then she said something. I couldn't hear her. So I said, "What?" in Hebrew. She said it again. But she was crying so hard, I couldn't understand her. So I said, "What are you saying?" in Arabic. But she was shaking. She couldn't speak any louder. Then I saw her start to reach inside of her dress. Under her wrap. I didn't know what she was going to do. And I couldn't do anything. Then from behind me I heard the sergeant scream, "Gun!" And he fired past me. He shot the girl. It tore her chest open. It threw her back against the wall and tore her dress and her chest open! Blood began pouring out of her as she lay on the floor! (Rachael is shaking. She leans against the table, turning to Adam.)
(Trying to calm herself so she can go on.) I stood frozen. The sergeant screamed at me, "Didn't you see her gun? Didn't you see her gun?" But I hadn't. I had only seen her eyes. Her dark eyes. Like mine. Just like mine. Then he yelled, "Get out of here! Now!" But I didn't move. "Get out! He screamed again, pushing past me. Then I couldn't stop myself. He started to reach down to touch her. I said, "Don't touch her." He looked at me. "Don't touch her!" I screamed at him. And I pushed him away and knelt down and put my hands in the blood that was pouring out of her chest. Then her lips moved. I couldn't understand. So I bent over and put my face up against hers. And I heard her say, "Aah-bram. Aah-bram." (Rachael catches her breath.) She was saying "Abraham. Abraham." Then she touched her dress. As if there was something there she wanted me to see. So I opened up her wrap. She was holding a Qur'an. A Qur'an! My, God, Adam! My, God! She was trying to say we were . . . cousins. Or sisters. Abraham. Our shared . . . father. Abraham. Ishmael and Isaac. We were . . . sisters. (Rachael moves back to the chair on which Adam's coat is hanging. Shaking, with great difficulty, she sits down. Adam is silent.)
I took the Qur'an. It had blood on it. I tried to wipe off the blood and show it to her. But her eyes closed. And her breathing stopped. Then the sergeant was pulling me to my feet and pushing me ahead of him out of the door into the larger room and then out of the door to the front of the house. He pushed me again. I stumbled toward the jeep. I heard him yell, "Blow it!" to two of the soldiers. Then I got to the jeep and leaned against it. I vomited. It was awful. I could hear them running back inside. But all I could do was vomit. Then I climbed back into the jeep and sat down and waited. I was holding the Qur'an. One of the soldiers put my rifle back in my arms. Then the driver started the engine. He pulled the jeep away from the house. Then he stopped again. I started to turn back to see what the other soldiers were doing, when all of a sudden the house just exploded. The sergeant leaped into the jeep with the three soldiers who'd helped him. "Go!" he yelled at the driver. So we did. We sped off into the desert. (Rachael is quiet for some time. Then Adam speaks.)
Then what happened, Rachael?
(Looking up at Adam.) What?
(Tenderly.) Then what happened?
We were driving, the sergeant leaned over my shoulder from the back seat. "She had a gun," he said very quietly. I started to turn to speak to him, but he put a hand on my shoulder and held me in place. "She had a gun. You didn't see it. I did. I fired to protect you." Then he took his hand away. None of the other men spoke. And the sergeant, he didn't say anything more as we drove along across the hills. (Rachael turns in her chair.) I remember that it was a very beautiful evening. The sunset took a long time. There were deep blue shadows everywhere after a while. The sky ahead of us was red, as if the horizon was on fire. I looked to my right once at the sky. There were stars starting to appear in the darkness. But none of the men said anything to me. The sergeant didn't say anything more to me. And I didn't write a story about the incident. Ever. I just held the Qur'an against me all the way back to camp. I've kept it with me ever since. I have it with me now. (As she goes to her backpack and get the Qur'an, Adam speaks.)
All of that . . . it would have been very hard.
(Clutching the Qur'an.) Yes. But that was only the beginning. I tried to forget what had happened. I'm not very brave. I found that out that day. So I tried to forget what had happened.
(Standing, moving toward the overstuffed chair, sitting down on the US arm.) But you could not?
(Looking at him, standing, moving around the table toward the cot.) No. I could not. Then a year after I was out of the army I began writing for the Jerusalem Post. Another reporter found out there had been a number of incidents similar to the one I saw. He wrote a feature story, which started a firestorm. Israeli soldiers who'd done such things but who'd never been reported. The government was outraged. So was the public. The government began an investigation. Because there had never really been a satisfactory explanation as to why the patrol had blown up a Palestinian house with a dead girl in it, the incident I witnessed was investigated again. When my editor found out I'd served in the army as an army news writer during the time all of the incidents took place, he put me on the story. I helped dig up the facts about four separate times when Israeli soldiers had done things that were violations of the Israeli code of conduct. When the governmental committee found out I was writing stories because I'd been in the army and in the sector of the occupied territory where the incidents had taken place, they called me to testify. Which I had to do. My editor tried to keep me out of it, but the committee said they weren't trying to compromise my news writing. They only wanted to take advantage of the fact I'd been at one of the incidents.
(Shaking his head.) It just kept getting worse, didn't it?
Yes.
What did you tell the committee?
I told them everything I could. As much as I could. About the general attitudes of the soldiers. About anything that might make them think I was telling them the truth. But when they got to the incident of the house . . . and the dead girl . . . I told them . . . she'd had a gun. (Rachael is shaking.) I couldn't deny that I was there. But I said she'd had a gun. That the sergeant had saved my life. Which satisfied them. He was reprimanded for blowing up the house without removing the girl's body. But everyone credited him with saving me, so that cancelled out the other. (She moves to the top of the cot, almost against the wall, as if she is trapped, as if she wants to be trapped. Then she turns back to Adam.)
I didn't go back to the Post that afternoon. Instead, I went back to my apartment and sat alone for three days. I don't even remember if I ate. I only knew that I had to think. On the fourth morning, I got up and went to the newspaper. I resigned my job. Then I went back to my apartment, packed my clothes, and drove to Tanebaum College.
Tanebaum College?
It's a college for Jewish women. I'd studied at Hebrew University. But a friend, a close friend, she's an instructor at Tanebaum. So I went to her and said I had to study Judaism.
Judaism?
Yes. When I sat alone for those three days, I suddenly realized I didn't know enough about my own religion. I knew about Israel. About what had happened in Europe. But I didn't understand what it meant to be a Jew. I told my friend I wanted to start studying who we were. How we got to be who we are. That's what Tanebaum does. For Jewish women from all over the world. They study what it means to be a Jew . . . and a woman.
How long were you there?
Almost a year.
And what did you study?
History.
(Nods.) Ah. History.
Yes. It all comes down to history, doesn't it?
It seems so.
I started with the history of Jewish thought. The Torah. Theology. It was very important to me. I wanted to go back to the beginning. I'd run into a crisis in my life, and what I'd thought was Judaism hadn't stood up well at all. I hadn't been able to find any answers to my questions. That's when I realized that like many young Jews, I'd thought of Judaism as something that just came into being. All at once. I hadn't given much thought to how hard it had been for it to find its way. To find its form. Become something identifiable. So I began to study the historical periods. And the historical figures. And not just Abraham and Joseph or Moses at Sinai. That was easy. I wanted to study the inside. The spine. That's the word I found. The spine. The prophets. Because one historical survey I read claimed that the spine of Judaic belief was first articulated by the prophets. Almost everything since has been commentary.
Which prophets? Isaiah? Jeremiah?
Yes. And Amos. Amos first of all. Maybe Amos most of all.
And what did studying Amos teach you?
That it may be impossible to be an Israeli and a Jew at the same time.
What?
I know it sounds wrong. Like a contradiction. And I don't know if I'm right. But if being a Jew means loving God and doing justice, then I don't know if I can . . . I couldn't sort out how to be an Israeli and a Jew at the same time.
I would have thought that history teaches very clearly that you can't really be a Jew unless you are an Israeli.
I know. That's what I thought when I was growing up. That's what I was taught. Because of what happened in Europe. What happened to you.
And your mother.
Yes. And to my mother. And the thousands of Israelis just like her. But Israel isn't just a dream. Zion. It's a place. And it has to face all of the problems being a real place bring along. And I'm not sure we're doing a very good job of it.
You've survived wars. Isn't that the ultimate test?
You're right. We stood that kind of test.
Which we didn't. Failed leadership you called it.
But I'm not sure we're much different in Israel today. When I studied Amos, I heard him calling out that to be a Jew meant more than just doing rituals. He protested because the priests of his time had gone back to the sacrifices that made people feel better. They'd turned Abraham's one God of all creation into a tribal god who served the rich. Amos was ridiculed for what he taught. Today, we read him and nod and say how wonderful he was because we think we're safe from what he said, but I don't think we're safe at all. It's as if the Palestinians are doing what the Assyrians did when they devastated Israel three thousand years ago. Part of God's lesson. What the prophets called the crisis of conscience. Hurting us. Making us remember what we have forgotten. That rituals and power don't mean anything if our hearts are not true.
You've made a painful journey, Rachael Wyze.
Maybe. But I didn't do it very well.
No. You didn't.
I read in Micah something that stuck with me most of all.
What was that?
It has been told you, O man, what is good,
And what the Lord requires of you:
Only to do justly, and to love mercy,
and to walk humbly with your God.
Which means?
I don't know. I know what I want it to mean. And I wanted to live that way. To do justice and walk humbly. But then they came and told me . . . when I was at Tanebaum. A man came and told me that I would have to testify again.
Ah.
Yes. Ah. (Shakes her head slowly.) Other people had testified about the incident. The officers who'd gone to the house the day after we blew it up. The Palestinian mayor of the village. So the version all of us in the jeep had agreed to tell had started to come apart. The man told me I would have to appear before the committee again. Which would mean lying some more, or admitting that I had lied before and then tell the truth. (She is quiet for a moment.) I remember sitting in my room at Tanebaum that evening. I didn't know what to do. When I went to the dining hall to eat, I could feel the other women looking at me. They must have known. The story of the man coming to see me must have spread like wildfire. Because I could feel them all looking at me, as if each one of them had an opinion. Each one of them knew exactly what I should do. But I didn't. I wanted to go to the committee and tell them what Micah had said. I wanted to go tell them what Jeremiah had said.
I am a laughingstock all day long,But I knew that if I did that, if I started quoting the Torah to a bunch of grown up Jewish men, I knew I really would become a laughingstock.
Everyone mocks me. As often as I speak out . . .
I am reproached and derided For speaking the word of the Lord.
And if I say: "I will not make mention of Him,
Nor speak any more in His name,"
Then there is in my heart . . . a burning fire . . . .
And I am weary to hold it in . . .
So what did you do, Rachael?
I cried. Not so any of them could see me. But I cried. Then I went back to my room, and I stood looking out of my window. And a phrase started going through my head. A passage. I couldn't quite remember it. Not all of it. So I went to my notes. Because I'd written it down.
And you found it?
Yes. It was from Isaiah.
I the Lord, in my grace, have summoned you,
And I have grasped you by the hand.
I created you, and appointed you
A covenant people, a light of nations--
ADAM (joining RACHAEL) and RACHAEL:
Opening eyes deprived of light,
Rescuing prisoners from confinement,
From the dungeon those who sit in darkness.
And I knew that I was in a dungeon. Everyone in Israel is in a dungeon. Not the dungeons of Poland. But the dungeon of our own conflict. I didn't want to give up the land, either. But I didn't want to do wrong by keeping the land. I stood at my window and realized, this is my test, isn't it. This is the great test God is putting on me. And I couldn't understand why. I hadn't wanted to stand a test. I'd just wanted to report the news. Tell the story of . . . every day. But I was an outsider. In my own land, I was an outsider. And if I told the truth about what had happened, I'd probably have to leave forever. And I didn't want to leave.
And did you stand the test?
What? (Adam does not repeat himself. His silence is enough.)
I don't know. Did I? I didn't want to lie. Because if I lied, I felt like I wouldn't be a Jew. I tried to tell myself that if I told the truth, maybe it would help make us really start to understand what being Israeli means. And how if we did, it might one day make it easier for all of the soldiers. Maybe they would even be able to go back to their homes. But I thought of the way the man had looked at me when he'd come to my room that day at Tanebaum and told me that I had to testify again. I could feel what he was saying. Because he didn't want the truth either. People never really want the truth. They just want as much truth as will serve their purposes. So I waited there in my room until it was dark. Then I went out and got into my car and started driving. I drove all the way to the hill where my mother and I had walked together. I stayed there all night, looking toward the Mediterranean. And I cried. But no voice spoke to me. (Shakes her head.) I didn't see a burning bush. I just heard the wind blowing. I just felt the cold night air burning my face. So after a long time, I started walking. I couldn't see where I was going very well. Clouds kept blowing across the moon. I just knew I could not go back. I could not testify against Israel. But I could not lie and be a Jew. So I walked. (She stops for a moment. Adam moves, as if he is going to say something, ask a question. Then he thinks better and does not.)
(Speaking now to herself, not to Adam, reliving the moment.) When I came to the crest of a ridge, I realized there was nothing below me but space. Just space. So I said my prayers very carefully. I blessed my mother and father and my brother. And then I thought about you. (Rachael turns to Adam. He is alert.)
I thought about the last line of your diary. (She inflects her voice, quoting Adam's writing.) "So far 4,000 are ready to go. The orders are that there must be 9,000 by 4 o'clock." (her voice shifts again, back to her own.) And I understood, Adam Czerniakow. It was July 23rd. And I understood. We've never gotten past what happened to you. We've not let ourselves forget. Which I understand. We can't ever let ourselves forget. But we can't seem to get free, either. And those are two different things. To remember but to not be bound by memory. That's our task. But no one would listen to me. I could see it in the man's eyes. In all of those women's eyes in the dining hall. So I stood on the crest of the hill in the desert and cried. I cried for everything that's ever happened to us. (Her voice pitching.) I cried for my mother. I cried for the dead Palestinian girl. I cried out for only God to hear, "Four thousand and one!" And I stepped over the edge into the darkness . . . (slowly, in a whisper) and I was gone. (Rachael appears to be very calm, except her hands are shaking. A long silence passes. At last, Adam stands up and moves to Rachael, who is still standing.)
Sit down, Rachael Wyze. (Rachael does so.) (Adam moves around the table and begins to prepare tea by pouring tea from the tea tin into a strainer, which he places over one of the two porcelain mugs. Then taking the steaming tea pot from the hot plate, he pours water through the strainer into the mug. He pushes the mug of tea toward Rachael.)
Drink the tea. (He stands over her for a moment. Rachael looks at the mug. Then as he turns and moves back to his drafting table, she takes up the mug and blows across the surface to cool the tea. As he sits down at his drafting table, she takes a tentative sip. He turns back to her.)
Is it too hot?
(She shakes her head.) No.
Too bitter?
(Quietly.) Yes.
Use sugar.
Sugar?
In the smaller tin. (Rachael opens the small sugar tin. She looks inside. Then she takes out a sugar cube and holds it carefully.)
(Looking at the Qur'an open in front of Rachael.) Are you going to read the girl's Qur'an?
Yes. I think I should.
(Nods.) Perhaps that's your task.
(Hesitates for a moment.) Perhaps. (Then Rachael prepares to drop the cube of sugar into her tea.)
(Quickly, stopping her from doing so.) Not like that.
(Stops in mid-action. Looks at Adam.) What?
Not like that. Put the cube between your front teeth. Drink the tea through the cube. It's the way we did it in Poland.
(Holding the cube, she looks at it carefully. Looks at Adam with a quizzical expression.) Will that make my task easier?
(Pause.) I don't know if it will make your task easier, Rachael. But it helps me. It always helps me. (Rachael hesitates for a moment. Then she very carefully places the cube in her mouth between her teeth. As she picks up the mug of tea and prepares to drink, Adam nods. Then he turns back to his map. Rachael then drinks carefully. As she does, she opens the Qur'an and bends to the task of reading.) (The lights fade slowly to black.)
| Act One | Act Two |
Copyright 1993 Ronald John Vierling
For production information, please contact Joyce Davidsen at Celnor House, 407-677-6288.
A Teacher's Guide to the Holocaust
Produced by the Florida Center for Instructional Technology,
College of Education, University of South Florida © 2005.